Love Comes Softly
by olyphantastic
Summary: Mr and Mrs Bullock find love over cold, weak tea. M for sexual content.


******Authors Note: Please leave me reviews. I welcome feedback and suggestions. I update often and these help me make my writing richer. Many thanks to my horde of betas for checking and double checking my grammar, punctuation and sentence structure so my thoughts make sense!**********

His calloused fingers gripped the back of her neck as she set the teacup down. It was an odd feeling. She'd grown to understand Seth these past months in camp after dear William's passing. He was a good man. They'd not as yet consummated their marriage of convenience and she thought perhaps they never would. He was a generous man and she was happy with what she had of him- a beautiful home, built strong and safe by the sweat of his war-torn brow, to protect her from the weather of the Black Hills and his keen senses and ease with a weapon to protect her from the rest. She turned to gaze up at him, expecting to see a gentle teasing look there about her cool, weak tea. What she saw, however, shook her. Something like love and desire was written on his face. The idea of making love with him was simultaneously terrifying and intriguing. What kind of lover would this tightly wound and often explosive sheriff be? She stared back at him, perplexed. It was as though she was seeing him in a new light. He was still a good man, but now somehow more than just a protector, provider and guardian. She saw familiar qualities in his eyes to those of her late husband. His chiseled jaw and tanned skin reminded her of him.

Seth was different though. As much as he was good and kind, he was dangerous and wild. He was hard to pin down. Anger quietly raged under the surface of him and he would frequently allow his fists to say all of the things his mind wouldn't free his tongue to say. The way he was with men was the way he needed to be, she'd often thought. Those men required it of him. He required it of himself. How he was with men was not at all how he was with her. In the safe confines of their home, she'd sometimes note the carefully constructed prison he'd built for his emotions falter for an instant. In those moments, in the still of the night, he was tender and understanding. He was quiet, pensive and sometimes sorrowful. The weight of the world was pinned to his chest with that tin star. His very soul was heavy with emotion from too many beatings, too much carnage and sadness. He kept it wrapped tightly beneath his vest, quelled with liquor and sheer force of will, until it would undoubtedly wriggle free in a flash of fists and gun smoke. She knew how it pained him when William died; how he felt out of control and as if he had let his dead brother down. She felt a sudden pang of guilt as she recalled how she'd packed her things and thought of leaving him that day. It must have crushed him for her to say so. He was a man of few words, but taking her hands in his was his way of asking her to stay and live with him. That was the first small step towards this very moment. She looked back at him, his stormy eyes churning, hand still clamped on her neck searing her flesh and igniting her soul. She thought how lovely a person Seth Bullock was beneath the armor he required for this life. The teacup rattled in it's saucer as her unsteady hand jostled it on the side board. She tried to focus on it. His fingers were sending tiny electric pulses through the nape of her neck to her very center. Passion fluttered in her stomach and warmth roiled in her loins. She leaned into the counter, steadying herself. His hand began to move, slowly dragging warmth on weathered fingers over her mourning dress, along the ridges of her corset beneath. It came to rest over her bustle, desire radiating through the many layers between his hand and her skin. She steeled herself to face him, unsure what feral impulse would be there looking back at her from behind his intense gaze. She could feel his eyes burning holes in her clothing. He stood very near to her- perhaps nearer than he'd ever been- and his hot breath caressed her ear.

She'd never looked lovelier to him than she did right then, transfixed on the teacup. She was so silently strong, like the curve of earth that holds the ocean allowing it to batter and erode, staying there nonetheless keeping time with each wave crashing into it. She knew how to talk to people, how to get thoughts across without it coming to blows. She was kind, and loving and though she knew more heartache than one soul should have a right to, she was happy and never complained. She was so grateful to him for the home he'd built, the protection he provided her and the work he did. At his asking, she stayed with him in this godforsaken camp though he failed to protect her son and was guilty of bedding another. She stayed for him. People like her raised this camp up. She brought refinement and warmth to this seedy place. She cared for the camp's children as though they were her own. At this moment, after joking with her about her tea, he thought he might love her. In addition to her many internal qualities, she was also rather striking. Her milky-white porcelain skin was smooth and untouched. She kept it hidden from the world and from him beneath swathes of black fabric. Her hair flowed endlessly from her head, thick and golden like the fortune beneath the hills. She kept it hidden, too, from view in a tight bun beneath her bonnet, releasing it only at night. Her full lips were luxurious pink velvet, sleek and moist. As his fingers grasped the nape of her neck and reveled in its silken softness, he imagined how satiny the skin of her thighs must be. The thought of his rough digits scraping along her pristine flesh, seeking the heat of her passion, aroused him. He leaned in close as she looked at the teacup she'd taken from him and inhaled her faint rose scent. With each beat of her heart he could smell her stronger, the perfume evaporating off the pulsating artery in her neck, coursing with hot blood. He ran his hand down her black lace bodice and settled on her hip, delighting in her quickened pulse and the swell of intoxicating fragrance. She turned to face him, timid curiosity in her stunning chartreuse eyes.

He grabbed her wrist suddenly and spun her to face him. He wrapped a powerful arm around her lithe waist and pulled her close. He kissed her passionately. His lips crushed hers, his tongue invaded her mouth, his breath coming in gasps and mingling with her own in her nostrils. She resisted at first, unsure of this sudden outpouring of affection, but soon found his strong arms encircling her comforting and his warm mass inviting. She leaned into his hardened body and surrendered to him. She parted her lips, granting his unrelenting tongue entry. She ran her hands up his arms and over his neck, thick with grit. His intensely burning eyes retreated behind long, fluttering lashes as she studied the various scars and imperfections scattered across his ruggedly handsome face. She caressed his face and traced a finger along his prominent cheekbone. His eyes snapped open, he scooped her up effortlessly and they ascended the stairs to the bed he had made her.

He returned her to her feet gingerly and set to work on the buttons of her mourning dress, eagerly panting into her mouth and nipping at her lips. She pressed into his lips and peeled off his vest and shirt. They uncoupled briefly as he removed his gun belt, kicked off his boots and stepped out of his trousers. She, too, had considerable unclothing to do, removing her corset and stockings until she stood wearing only her slip. She reached up and single-handedly let her hair down. Released from it's binds, it cascaded like a coruscating river of molten ore around her alabaster shoulders and into her graceful face. She looked much younger as the harsh angles of her features softened beneath her indulgent flowing locks. She glowed in the dewy morning light as it filtered through the glazed glass and window treatments. He stared at her for a moment, taking in the beauty that was for his eyes alone. He admired the nubile curves of her statuesque form beneath the gauzy slip she wore. His eyes traveled from the toned softness of her arms to the pristine, opalescent skin of her thighs as they trembled. He traced her outline, mesmerized by the delicate sloping curve of her hip and the consummate fullness of her breasts nestled over her willowy midsection. Her limbs were long and shapely and her resplendent skin shimmered in the heat, a beacon of heavenly comfort in this dark and dangerous place. He watched the muscles of her stomach as they fluttered beneath the sheer material.

She, too, admired what was before her. He was a stone worked hard by weather and smoothed to perfection. Her husband's sinewy arms were wrapped heavily with muscle. His chest was broad and his shoulders expansive, strong and sturdy from preparing the wood and building this home. His gleaming, sun-kissed skin was peppered with scars. His hands were battle worn as well, knuckles calloused and thick from fighting for his life. Veins bulge from the backs of those well-versed hands and trail up his lean forearms before disappearing into his defined biceps. He stood there, across the room, exuding sex and desire but also tenderness and appreciation. She searched his chiseled features and dark eyes beneath his tousled umber hair while his gaze traced her outline in the shadow. His wedding band glinted in the light despite the layers of dirt on his hands.

He returned to her and pressed against her ardently. She ran her hands across his generous chest and bent to his will. He trailed soft kisses along her jaw and ran his fingers through her hair, gently grabbing fistfuls. He hoisted her onto the bed and ran a hand up her side, brushing her slip up to her stomach. Each gentle caress from his thick digits caused her chest to heave and her breath to quicken. His touch burned through to her core, setting nerves she forgot she had on fire and fanning the inferno raging in her gut. His warm weight was delicious atop her. She scratched her nails over the hard ridges of his shoulders and slipped along the slickness of his back. She clawed at his muscles as they danced beneath her hands. She kissed his neck and breathed him in. He smelled of shaving cream, blood and mud. She lapped at the salt on his skin and nibbled his earlobe. His hands cupped the soft curves of her breasts, squeezing them gently before running an abraded thumb over the fabric covering her nipple, commanding it to a stiff point. He lowered his head to it, sucking the fabric in a wash of hot breath and erotic sensation. She moaned and arched into him. Her nimble fingers sifted through his thick hair, tugging gently and massaging his tired scalp. He pulled her slip off over her head and brought his searing skin in touch with hers. Flesh to flesh, their hands and mouths explored each other, tasting and learning every intimate freckle and scar and inch of skin.

He entered her slowly, one hand tangled in her effulgent hair, the other bruising her hip. He bit his lip with his face buried in her neck, stubble on his face scratching her chest, mustache vibrating on her collarbone as he growled deep in his throat. She clawed at his buttocks and writhed beneath him, whimpering. He stroked the curve of her face softly and brushed her hair behind her ear as he gently rocked atop her, driving into her never-ending wetness rhythmically as a quartz stamp mill. He looked down on her enraptured as her eyelids fluttered and her body convulsed as she neared her peak. He kissed her mouth as she purred his name, swallowing it and muffling the noise. She throbbed and quivered around him. She clamped her legs around his midsection and ripped at his back. She grew flush and dewy and radiated heat and warmth up at him. She unleashed her chartreuse eyes at him once more as she brushed the hair from his. With the touch of her delicate hand to his rough cheek she pulled him off the ledge and into the abyss of pleasure reserved for passionate lovers in love.

Mr and Mrs. Bullock basked in the afterglow, exhausted, entangled and entwined for several hours; two bodies sharing a single heartbeat, drenched in sweat and safe in the home they had created together. She stroked his dampened hair as he rested, stilled by the rhythmic cadence of her respiration, face nestled on her chest as it rose and fell.


End file.
